Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
I couldn’t sleep that night. At home in Dublin, I often had sleepless nights after Mum passed away.
Partly because I didn’t want to dream about her, only to wake and find her not there.
The last few years had been like living suspended in mid-air, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Thinking about it now, in this place, with the distance it put between me and the past, I began to realise that I’d lost a part of myself back then.
In the process of becoming Mum’s carer, I had to abandon some of my own needs.
And while I had no regrets about that and would do the same thing in a heartbeat if I could have her back, I was beginning to wonder if those missing parts would ever return. And who would I be if they did?
‘Same, Proust, same,’ I sighed and opened it to the first page and the first line.
For a long time I used to go to bed early.
I had to smile. Maybe Proust was more accessible than I’d thought. I followed his thought process, gentle and rambling, but still no sign of sleep. When I checked the time on my phone again it was almost four in the morning.
I should try counting sheep, I thought, but then I had a better idea.
I left my squeaking mattress behind and got up to make a hot chocolate with the special vanilla liqueur.
With my dressing gown wrapped tightly around me against the chill of the old building, I went downstairs to put on a saucepan of milk.
It wasn’t far off dawn, and with little or no sleep, I knew I would struggle later today, but somehow it didn’t really matter.
I found the little bottle in the cupboard and followed the recipe just as it was written in the book.
I poured the warm, dark liquid into a bowl and sat at the counter and wrapped my hands around it.
It took a little while for me to realise that the far-off noises echoing underneath me were voices.
Multiple voices? I strained to hear by lifting my head and turning it to one side, just like a dog, and confirmed that yes, I could hear two people speaking.
But it wasn’t coming from the street outside, it was coming from the basement.
Of course. I shook my head at my own stupidity.
There were two bakers. I put the pan in the sink to soak as my thought processes figured it all out.
They must have just begun burning the wood in the ovens, while they started the day’s baking.
It made perfect sense now. One was in charge of the breads, the other of the pastries.
I knew it was too much work for one person.
But then I heard her. Madame Moreau’s guttural discourses were unmistakable.
But what on earth was she doing down there?
I launched myself towards the bathroom door and deftly lifted the grate by the sink, through which I had spied the basement the day before.
It was difficult to see anything at first, the light was so dim.
I could feel the warm air rising from the ovens and that sour smell of the yeast proving and turning plain old flour and water into something magical.
With a shuffling of feet, Manu came into view, wearing a white apron around his waist and his sleeves rolled up.
‘So he is making an apprenticeship,’ I remarked, a little surprised.
It took a lot of time and dedication to become a top baker, and at fifteen years old it seemed an ambitious undertaking.
In an odd way I felt sort of proud of him.
Nothing would have got me out of bed at 4am when I was his age, or any age for that matter.
I couldn’t see Madame Moreau, but I could hear her giving orders.
‘Maintenant, tu fais exactement comme lui,’ she said, directing Manu to do exactly as the baker was doing.
With flour-dusted hands, Manu began kneading a large pillow of dough and I tried to follow his eyeline to see if I could spot the head baker.
At first, I couldn’t see anything; he seemed to be staring straight at the ovens.
Then I began to notice a flicker … once, twice.
A person, a man, I thought, but his outline seemed hazy.
Instinctively, I rubbed my eyes, thinking this would give me a clearer view.
Gradually, a strange feeling came over me; a heaviness that had not been there moments earlier. That was when I fainted.
* * *
I awoke in my bed with absolutely no recollection of how I had gotten there.
I had a terrible headache and my body felt bruised and sore.
The memories of the night before swam just out of reach.
Perhaps it was all a dream, the result of an overactive imagination.
I reached for my phone and almost pole-vaulted out of bed when I saw that it was gone eight o’clock.
I pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and popped my feet into a pair of pumps, before thundering down the stairs and yanking my layered locks into a ponytail.
I burst into the bakery with such a force that I almost ran into Monsieur Raynard, a kind elderly gentleman who came in for his coffee and tartine every morning.
‘Oh, excusez-moi!’ I said, flushed, and he kindly said the fault was entirely his for standing in front of the door. They just didn’t make them like him anymore (although secretly I hoped they did).
I was prepared to beg forgiveness from Madame Moreau for my tardiness, but to my complete shock, she cut me off by saying that Manu had already made my excuses and that she hoped my headache had improved.
‘Erm, yes … thanks,’ was all I could muster, before putting on my apron and getting stuck into the usual tasks. But as the day wore on, it became clear that Manu and I would have to have words.
* * *
I called my dad that afternoon when I took my coffee break. Choosing my favourite croissant aux amandes with its yummy frangipane centre, I sat outside at a little square around the corner as the afternoon sunshine warmed my face.
‘Happy birthday!’ I cheered, trying to make up for the fact that I wouldn’t be there for his birthday.
‘Ah, Edie, how are ya, love? I got me card – didn’t understand a word of it,’ he laughed.
‘I’m sorry I’m not there,’ I said, trying to ignore the niggling thought that I’d abandoned him somehow.
‘You missed a cracking barbecue,’ he said. ‘A few of the lads came over to watch the rugby.’
‘Oh, the weather must be nice, then?’
‘You must be joking, it rained all weekend, so I had to light the barbecue in the shed!’
‘I’m not sure that’s very safe,’ I said, grimacing at the thought.
‘Anyway, how are them frogs treating ya?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think it’s politically correct to say that,’ I reproved.
‘Well, have you made any friends over there yet?’
I filled him in on Nicole and her family and he sounded genuinely reassured that there were people looking out for his not-so-little girl. I didn’t mention Hugo, or things that go bump in the night, even though I wanted to, badly.
I kept to myself at the bakery that afternoon, focusing all of my attention on our patrons while keeping my distance from Madame Moreau.
I waited for Manu to return that evening, but Madame Moreau insisted I knock off early, saying she thought I looked a little pale.
I couldn’t understand her change in attitude, but I was rather tired and I had a mountain of laundry to get through before bed.
I had put off the lavage since my arrival, as it appeared there was no washing machine in the building and this meant spending hours in a launderette.
After lugging what felt like a dead body around on my back, I found one open near the university campus and dumped my sports bag on the counter.
The noise of the machines droned mercilessly, as comatose students sat watching their clothes circumnavigate the drum.
It was self-service, so I separated the lights and darks and put money in the two machines.
After five minutes of watching them spin, I turned to my phone and saw that Nicole had sent me a photo from our night at Nostalgie.
It was Hugo and I, dancing. I’d never seen a picture of myself like that.
I looked so happy and carefree. He was smiling, too, and looking at me in a way that made my entire body tingle even then, just at the memory.
Why the hell didn’t I get his number? I put my phone back in my pocket.
After a failed attempt to read the local newspaper that someone had left on the seat beside me, I resorted to staring out of the window until the machine thudded and clicked to a halt.
That night, I got into bed early with my Proust and a hot-water bottle I had bought at the pharmacy.
It brought some comfort against the cold and confirmed my status as an antiquated saddo.
But an antiquated saddo who now read Proust. Once again, I found myself hypnotised by his verbose style that challenged you to slow down and not speedread to find out what was going to happen.
It was the very antithesis to scrolling social media, which sometimes left me feeling jittery.
In fact, I was almost transported back to his time, when everything moved at a slower pace.
Then something interesting caught my eye.
I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison.
Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognised their voice the spell is broken.
We have delivered them: they have overcome death and return to share our life.
I began to wonder about what I’d seen in the basement.
Could it be true? Could a lost soul be held captive in a place?
Somehow, in the midst of these imaginings, I’d drifted off to sleep with the book on the pillow beside me.
But just before 4am, I woke and sat up rigid in the bed.
I’d had strange dreams about a campfire and old wooden caravans – like the kind they used in old European circuses.
There were horses and people speaking a language I didn’t understand.
I was trying to find my way back somewhere, but I couldn’t.
I woke with tears on my face. I turned on the light and got up to get a glass of water.
I felt such a sense of sadness that I couldn’t quite explain and I wasn’t sure if it was coming from me or this place.
All was quiet and just as I got back into bed and switched off the lamp, my phone came to life, playing Django Reinhardt’s ‘Minor Swing’.
Had I been a cat, I would have been hanging from the ceiling by my claws.
I didn’t dare breathe, but as suddenly as it came on, the phone went silent.
I became alert to every unfamiliar sound.
After some tense moments of negotiation with myself, I dared to reach my hand out from under the sheet and switch on the lamp.
Everything sat motionless and ordinary, as it should be.
I slowly began to allow myself to breathe again and took the courageous step of getting out of bed and checking underneath it, in some childhood belief that if all was clear under there, I’d be OK.
Of course, there was nothing there, but the goosebumps on my skin told me there was something not quite right in this bakery.
My first instinct was to pack. I could toss my clothes into a bag in less than five minutes and get out of there.
Get the early-morning train to Paris and take a standby flight home from the airport.
Yet I didn’t move. My second thought was to go to Madame Moreau’s apartment, bang on the door and demand answers.
Yet I didn’t do that, either. I couldn’t explain it rationally, but somehow I got the feeling that whatever was going on in this bakery was a key to unlocking something deep within me.
A thought grazed the surface of my awareness.
It wasn’t a memory, exactly, but more like a clue.
I grabbed my shoes, pulled on a coat and tiptoed down the winding stairs as lightly as I could.
Once inside the bakery, I found the keys to the front door in the drawer beneath the cash register.
I turned the key in the lock and felt the mechanisms clink.
Then I pulled the bolts back at the top and bottom of the door with a bit too much gusto and worried I’d made too much noise.
I stood still for a moment and listened.
All was quiet. Phone in hand, I stepped out onto the dark, cobbled street.
Without the sound of any cars and with only streetlamps to light the way, it almost felt like stepping back in time.
The buildings around here hadn’t changed in over a century.
I walked around the side of the building and down the little lane to where the blue basement door lay half in shadow on the gable end.
I tapped the torch on my phone and shone it onto the door where I saw a brass plate.
I had hardly registered it the first time, but there it was, just as I’d seen in my mind’s eye.
Stencilled in gold letters was the name ‘P. Moreau’.
Pierre. The same name I’d found on the recipe book.